from nowhere in particular. It seemed that Haavard the Hewer, whom
everybody had forgotten, was still alive and still standing on the bloody
stumps of his knees. With his last dying gasp of strength he had shot
this arrow.
During the battle King Haakon sacrificed one of his sons, and this
horrible action did much to hasten the king’s overthrow. His name became
a nightmare to his subjects. It was a name to scare bad boys with. In the
most abominable manner he insulted several of his most powerful nobles,
and finally they rose in revolt. In terror Haakon fled with a single
thrall, named Kark, to Rimul, the home of his mistress Thora. She hid
the two in a pigsty, and there they spent a horrible night. A searching
party, under the leadership of Olaf Tryggvesson, who had lately returned
to Norway from Russia, where he had spent his youth, walked all about,
within hearing of the miserable king in his hiding place. Olaf mounted a
stone close to the sty and said in a loud tone, which the two miserable
men could hear, that he offered a great reward to whoever should find
Haakon. This of course added to Haakon’s terrors the fear of treachery on
the part of his thrall.
All night king and thrall sat in their noisome den, eyeing each other in
awful, mutual distrust. Toward morning the king was overpowered by sleep.
“But the terrors of his vigil pursued him sleeping. His soul seemed to be
tossed on a sea of anguish. He screamed in wild distress, rolled about,
rose upon his knees and elbows, and his face was horrible to behold.”
Kark then stabbed his master, cut off his head, and took it to Olaf,
claiming his reward. Olaf, on the dead king’s account, took vengeance on
the traitor by killing him.
Longfellow has immortalized this event, and I lately came across these
lines of his, commemorating Olaf’s celebration:
“At Nidarholm the monks are all singing,
Two ghastly heads on the gallows are swinging;
One is Earl Haakon’s and one is his thrall’s,
While the people are shouting from windows and walls,
And alone in her chamber swoons Thora, the fairest of women.”
These were hard old times. But the influence of a few noble kings like
Haakon the Good and Olaf the Saint wrought in time a great change on
these brave Norsemen. They were of too fine a stock to be permanently
satisfied with a god who delighted in bloodshed and deceit. Christianity
eventually gave them higher ideals without robbing them of their
indomitable courage.
I will tell you in my next letter a little about the better days of
Norway, particularly in connection with this old city. Of course I
can only skim along, picking out a bit here and there. The reading of
Boyesen’s _Story of Norway_ has left me with a tremendous respect for the
caliber of the Norwegians, from the days of Hasting the Pirate to the
days of King Haakon VII, who was crowned in Trondhjem Cathedral in 1905.
Good-by. As ever,
AYLMER.
SIXTH LETTER
The “thermometer of Norway”; the Reformation in Norway; the
caliber of the early Reformation pastors; the register of the
“Hospitset”; “fladbröd” and “mysost”; a type of Norwegian
gentleman.
TRONDHJEM, February 23.
MY DEAR JUDICIA,
I have spent over a month now in Trondhjem, and I like it better and
better every day. It bristles so with memories of the past, and yet it
is such a wide-awake, modern city. Our old friend, Olaf Tryggvesson,
founded it in 996, and ever since then the Norwegians have considered it
the heart of their nation, even though Christiania is now the nominal
capital. If Trondhjem is the nucleus of Norway, then the cathedral is
the nucleolus. The Norwegians appropriately call it their national
thermometer. It has been burned in whole or in part no less than seven
times, and once it was struck by lightning and partly destroyed. It was
built originally by King Olaf the Quiet in the eleventh century, and
after every catastrophe some succeeding king has rebuilt it. If it happen
that the cathedral has not been destroyed for several decades, the people
occupy themselves with making additions. If hard times come to Norway,
the cathedral is left as it may chance to be. If times are prosperous,
money is given by state and private subscription to enlarge or beautify
it. Just now times are prosperous, and strangely enough there has been
no fire for over a century. Consequently there are now to be seen dozens
of the most hideous gargoyles reposing in one part of the church, waiting
to be put up.
[Illustration: _Copyright by Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._
Trondhjem Cathedral.]
I don’t suppose you have any idea of the beauty and grandeur of this
historic _Domkirke_. I never dreamed of finding anything like it way up
here near the arctic circle. We Americans get into the habit of thinking
that Cologne and Milan and Rome and Florence and one or two other places
of continental Europe have all that is worth looking at in the line of
cathedrals. But this Trondhjem Dom is as fine as any of them, though
much smaller than most. It is built entirely of a bluish, slaty stone,
except for the marble pillars, which contrast beautifully with the blue.
It is a masterpiece of Gothic architecture, and the entire church is as
delicately fashioned as any in Europe.
My British author, before quoted, says of it: “This is supposed to be
the grandest church in the whole of Scandinavia. It is built largely
of bluish soapstone and white marble, and it is mostly Gothic in
architecture. A service, apparently for children, was in progress, so we
were not able to walk around the interior.” I am forced to think that the
gentleman did not possess quite the average amount of ingenuity, or he
might have somehow obviated the difficulty and seen the interior in spite
of the service “apparently for children.” Well, this _is_ supposed to be
the grandest church in the whole of Scandinavia, and it bears out the
supposition.
To me its greatest interest lies in its history. The one great king
particularly associated with this cathedral was Olaf the Saint. He
was the king who finally achieved the conversion of his country to
Christianity, and because of his devoted life and heroic death at
Sticklestad he has been made the patron saint of Norway. Cold, relentless
history reveals the fact that he was not in reality as near sainthood as
Harald the Good, but his saintliness was of a more romantic character and
appealed to the imagination of the people. After spending many years at
the court of the Russian king, Jaroslav, he believed that he was called
by a vision to go back to Norway and attempt to complete the conversion
of his native land. He went to Sweden and collected all the men he could.
They might be robbers and outlaws, but they must be baptized Christians,
and he was courageous and consistent enough to dismiss a great many brave
soldiers who refused to be baptized. At Sticklestad, in Norway, he met
the opposing forces, but was beaten and finally killed, fighting bravely
to the last. At the very moment when he was slain, there occurred a total
eclipse of the sun. “The sun grew blood-red, and a strange red sheen
spread over the landscape. Darkness fell upon the fighting hosts, and the
sun grew black.”
Of course nothing more than this was needed to convince the people that
Olaf’s god was angry with them. Stricken with terror, they did their
utmost to atone for their guilt. They later built a great cathedral in
his honor. They made him the national saint, and they laid his bones in a
costly silver reliquary in the cathedral, where for six centuries devout
pilgrims visited his shrine.
Better times did indeed come to Norway with the introduction of
Christianity, but some centuries later, when the countless claimants
to the throne had ruined the nation’s unity, and Denmark had taken
possession of Norway virtually as a province, Christianity suffered a
horrible relapse. Denmark introduced into Norway the Reformation, but the
Danes considered their Norwegian subjects scarcely worth salvation. They
sent to Norway the very lowest scum of their clergy. As Boyesen says,
“Ex-soldiers, ex-sailors, bankrupt traders, all sorts of vagabonds, who
were in some way disqualified for making a living, were thought to be
good enough to preach the word of God in Norway.” Just as England once
sent its criminal class to Australia, so Denmark in the Middle Ages sent
its vagabond class to Norway in the form of Protestant pastors. For a
long time physical strength was the Norwegian pastor’s only requisite. As
a general rule he could scarcely read, and cared little or nothing for
the religion he taught except as a means of keeping the wolf from his
door; but if only he could thrash the strongest ruffian in his parish he
was sure of success.
I am staying at the _Hospitset_, which corresponds somewhat to the
_hospitzes_ or Christian hotels in Switzerland and Germany. When
I arrived here I had to sign a sort of register that seemed to me
unwarrantably inquisitive. It must know my name, my destination, my last
previous address, my permanent address, my age, my occupation, and I
don’t know what other items of gossip. Some of the guests have used the
opportunity to exercise their native wit. _Exempli gratia._ Michael
O’Shaughnessy writes that his permanent address is care of the king of
Siam; his occupation, plumber; his age, thirty-two; his destination,
heaven. Many other humorists, mostly signing themselves under obvious
_noms-de-plume_, have thought fit to enliven the dull pages for future
readers. This register is a government institution, at least in many
places, and the hotel keeper must not be blamed for such inquisitiveness.
The food in this _Hospitset_ is excellent, both as to quality and
quantity. One Norwegian feature of the meals is the cheese. You know
Norway is famous for its _sæters_, or mountain dairies, where butter
and cheese are made. The most delicious, to my mind, and certainly the
most typically Norwegian, is a brown cheese called _mysost_. It looks
like brown Windsor soap, as English authors never fail to remark, and
it is sweetish. It is made from goat’s milk, and tastes as though all
the cheese part had been extracted. That does not sound particularly
attractive, perhaps, but honestly I like it immensely. A great cube of
it, measuring something less than a foot on all sides, is put on the
table, and each guest is supposed to pare off as many thin slivers of it
as he can eat. It is most delicious when taken with Norwegian _fladbröd_.
This is a sort of oat cake, and when well made is as crisp and delicious
as anything I know of in that line.
I admit that both the _mysost_ and the _fladbröd_ are somewhat unique.
There is nothing like either of them in England or America, or anywhere
except in Scandinavia, and unless you are something of an adventurer you
may not like them at first. Several very conservative authors write most
disparagingly of it: of course they do, for _mysost_ and _fladbröd_ are
new to them. _Mysost_ they liken to brown soap, “which however will not
lather.” _Fladbröd_, they say, “resembles in appearance and consistency
old boot-leather.” I, personally, have never tasted old boot-leather or
brown soap, but if it is really true that they taste like _fladbröd_ and
_mysost_, then I shall begin cultivating my appetite for them as soon as
I get home.
I have met a good many of the Norwegians. Most of them speak English, at
least here in Trondhjem. Particularly I am impressed with the stateliness
and nobility of the old men. You have seen pictures, haven’t you, of
Björnstjerne Björnson, and Grieg, and some of the others. Well, they are
typical. I have talked with several of these old, patriarchal Norwegians,
and they are the finest, truest gentlemen you can imagine. Benevolence
and good will seem to radiate from them.
Doctor J. D. Forbes calls the Norwegians “a free, intelligent, and
fine-hearted people,” and certainly he is right. Another author finds
that “sincerity, honesty, and freedom from conventional cant are the
chief national virtues.” If you combine these two opinions you will come
near to describing the Norwegian of to-day.
The other day I hired a very good violin at a shop here, and had to pay
the exorbitant sum of one _kroner_. I didn’t have to make any deposit,
and the shopkeeper asked me no questions. When I was going out he
inquired at what hotel I was staying. I told him, and he said in English:
“Never mind, then, about returning the violin. I’ll come around to the
hotel some time and get it.” Can you imagine such confidence in any other
country? The Norwegians expect you to trust them, and in return they
trust you.
I intend to go to Christiania in a few days and will write to you from
there.
As always,
AYLMER.
[Illustration: On the Sognefjord.]
SEVENTH LETTER
Holmenkollen, the skiing center of the world; the throng
of sport-seekers; Holmenkollen Day; the stuff from which
Norsemen are made; Veidirektör Krag; Harald Hardruler; how to
manufacture a halo.
HOLMENKOLLEN, March 15.
MY DEAR JUDICIA,
I have found the home of winter sport. Its name is Holmenkollen. Of
course all Norway is known as the birthplace of the ski, and Holmenkollen
is the sporting center of Norway. To-day a heavy mantle of fog has
settled over Christiania, but up here at Holmenkollen we don’t know what
fog means. It is as bright and crisp and clear as possible. Winter has
not thought of passing the first flush of its youth, though it is the
middle of March. It is often good skiing here until the end of April.
Every day and many times a day the electrics from Christiania bring
up a load of sport-seekers, the skis and sleds being strapped on to
the outside of the car. There is a winding course, five miles long,
which is crowded every minute of these long, bright afternoons with an
endless procession of boys and girls, young men and maidens, old men and
old women, on skis or sleds or toboggans. Really the most doddering,
toothless grandma is no more out of place at Holmenkollen than the
toddling, toothless babe, and neither of these two extremes is more out
of place than the stalwart youth of “collegy” age and appearance. Every
one comes to Holmenkollen. If you are a beginner and can’t stand up on
skis, you will have company, and if you are a world’s champion you will
have plenty of other aspirants to dispute the title with you.
You could hardly find a more jumbled and heterogeneous collection of
humanity anywhere than you can find any bright winter afternoon on the
slopes of Holmenkollen. I have just been out for an hour or so, taking
an “inventory” of the sport-seekers. It was an average crowd, and I must
describe its appearance as it slid by my place of inspection, by the
roadside.
First came three girls, each clad in most brilliant sweaters, and each on
a separate sled, dragging behind her a pole twenty-five or thirty feet
long, which served as rudder and also as brake. After a little pause a
very buxom, oldish woman appeared around the bend in the course. She
had two little children on the sled with her, who were fairly chortling
with delight. A solemn old man next passed by. I have seldom seen a face
which exhibited such profundity of thought and such deep concentration on
his occupation as the face of this old man showed. He was dragging his
feet so hard that he barely crept along. He gave the appearance of being
absorbed in a very dangerous undertaking, which he was going to “see
through” if it killed him.
While he was trundling by, a pair of skiers appeared, flying at
tremendous speed. They were a man and a woman, and the most graceful pair
you can imagine. They swirled around the corner, and when they came
to the old man went one on either side, making a bridge over him with
their hands. He continued on his precarious course without the slightest
indication that he had seen them.
The next in the procession was a man on a sled, smoking a pipe as he went
and actually reading a paper. But a very self-conscious smile betrayed
his suspicion that he was being watched. I fear he was guilty of an
attempt to “show off.” Next came two tottering English girls on skis.
They fell every few yards, and as they passed me one of them reeled and
tremblingly cried: “Oh dear, I’m going again.” She did “go,” and I had
the opportunity of rescuing her. She said “_tak tak_” very sweetly,
which was probably all the Norwegian she knew, and I was so delighted
to have palmed myself off as a native that I said nothing for fear of
spoiling her illusion. After this several men went sailing by on skis.
They turned down a very steep side path and whirled out of sight like
lightning. There is nothing like the beauty and grace of a ski artist who
is absolutely sure of himself. His knees do not totter, he doesn’t reel
about, he takes the turns smoothly and easily with a confidence which is
wonderful to behold. A good skier seems to me nearer to a bird than a
good aëronaut.
All this which I have described passed by my station of inspection in
about two minutes, and the kaleidoscope continued hour after hour.
The greatest sporting day of the year is what is called Holmenkollen Day.
Then all Christiania adjourns to the neighboring hill. The shops are
closed, and it is virtually a holiday for all. It usually comes early
in March, and on it are held annually the greatest contests in Norway,
and perhaps the greatest in all Europe. All the best ski runners and ski
jumpers from all over Europe assemble for the test. The most coveted
prize is the King’s Prize, which is given for the best aggregate of marks
for any single competitor in the two big events, the fifteen-kilometer
ski race and the ski jump. No one who does not compete in both these
events is eligible for the King’s Prize. The fifteen-kilometer race is
held on the day before the big jumping contest and is comparatively
uninteresting. The competitors start at intervals of thirty seconds, and
each one is timed separately. There is no excitement at the finish, and
for all the spectator can tell the last man in may be the winner.
On the big day the crowds begin to assemble about eleven o’clock, though
the contest does not begin for two hours. Boxes are built all along the
side of the jump to accommodate the wealthy aristocrats who can afford
to pay for them. Some forty thousand “plebs” take their stand around the
great “horseshoe,” which is roped off as a landing and stopping place for
the jumpers.
[Illustration: Ski Jumping. An Absolutely Perfect Jump.]
Promptly at one o’clock a tremendous cheering announces the arrival
of King Haakon, Queen Maud, and little Crown Prince Olaf. This trio
constitutes the first real royalty of their own that the Norwegians have
had for five or six centuries, and they go wild with enthusiasm whenever
any one of the party appears at a public gathering. Little Prince Olaf
is all but worshiped by his future subjects, and if they don’t look out
I fear they will some day have a spoiled crown prince on their hands.
However, he seems to be at present a very natural and normal boy.
As soon as the royal party arrives, the jumping begins, and this year,
though there were fully two hundred competitors, and each one had two
jumps, the whole contest was run off in a little over two hours. Of
course that meant three or four jumps to a minute, and so there was a
steady stream swooping down from the hill to the take-off, then sailing
out into the air and landing a hundred feet or so down the slope, where,
if the jump was successful, they continued their course at express-train
speed.
Of course the great majority of the jumpers were Norwegians. It takes
years and years of practice to become skillful, and only those who have
been at it since babyhood reach the highest pinnacles of skill. No matter
how many times you see ski jumping, the thrill never seems to wear off.
As each jumper took his place at the top of the hill, a huge number
on a blackboard announced to the spectators who was coming. All the
competitors were numbered, as they are in races, and printed lists were
distributed for the convenience of the onlookers.
The jumpers would come tearing down the hill and crouch low as they
approached the take-off. Then, with arms outspread, they would shoot out
into space, straightening themselves quickly and bending forward. While
they were in the air, they would put one ski a little ahead of the
other; with a little “spat” the skis would strike the snow far down the
slope; agile and light as a feather, the jumper would sink down almost
on his heels, and then, if he kept his balance, he would fly ahead for
a second or two, then make a beautiful “Telemark” or Christiania swing,
coming to a dead stop. Telemark and Christiania are in skiing parlance
two methods of coming to a sudden stop.
As I understand it, a Telemark means a wide, sweeping curve, with one
foot considerably in front of the other, while the Christiania is a quick
snap at right angles accomplished by a sudden swing of the arms and of
the whole body. However, nobody quite understands how it is done unless
he has been practicing it half a lifetime. There is a great knack about
it, and it was beautiful to watch the ease with which many of the jumpers
did it.
Of course there were unfortunates who fell. There would be a wild whirl
of arms and legs and skis and snow, and, when the whirl gradually
resolved itself into a man, he would crawl to one side to get out of the
way of the next comer.
The distance some of these men jump is appalling. A leap of one hundred
and forty-eight feet such as that made by Harald Smith (a Norwegian in
spite of his surname) is certainly more like flying than jumping.
Compared with these thrilling exhibitions the mild daily procession
down the five-mile slope of Holmenkollen seems rather tame, but it is
interesting nevertheless. In the restaurant here, which overlooks the
city and fjord of Christiania, there is a huge picture of Nansen. He
was once a competitor in ski jumping, and perhaps it was here that he
developed the courage which later made him famous the world over as an
explorer.
The modern Norwegians have inherited their love of sport from their
viking ancestors. I have lately been reading in Du Chaillu’s _The Viking
Age_ an account of viking sports, and the prowess of the present-day
Norwegians is explained in my mind. A viking, it seems, had to be
athletic if he would amount to anything. Courage, skill, and dexterity
were the necessities of his life.
Once there was a viking named Kari who saved his life by means of his
high-jumping ability. His enemy Sigurdson ran at him with a spear from
behind, but Kari saw him just in time, jumped high in the air so that the
spear went under his feet, and then came down on top of it, smashing the
handle.
The sagas abound with tales of athletic prowess, and, even if these sagas
were apt to become a little over enthusiastic in dealing with their
heroes, nevertheless we can see easily enough how it is that the modern
Norwegian comes by his wonderful athletic skill and courage.
Nansen is not the only explorer to whom Norway does honor. You know it
was not long ago that Amundsen’s name was on all lips, because of his
discovery of the South Pole. He, too, has the stuff in him of which
vikings were made.
Up near the top of this five-mile road stands a bronze figure leaning
carelessly against a milestone. He rests his bronze fist on his bronze
waistcoat, and a bronze felt hat and a bronze cane complete the picture
of calm self-satisfaction. On close inspection I learned that this was no
other than Veidirektör Krag, who long ago directed the building of this
road and now stands contentedly surveying his work. Besides having a good
view of the sports, he has a wonderful prospect out over the fjord and
the national capital.
If Veidirektör Krag had stood there four or five centuries ago he would
have seen not Christiania, but Oslo. Five times the city has been burned,
and after one of its destructions, in 1624, Christian IV rebuilt it and
modestly named it for himself.